All Work and No Play
by Stormcrown201
Summary: Leas makes a habit of getting up at ridiculous hours and working all day, every day. Dorian has objections.


Dorian's eyes flicker open when it's still dark. Next to him, as his eyes adjust, Leas shifts, the weight of him pressing heavily down on the bed. Dorian watches him, curious, but sees nothing until Leas creates a small ball of light and floats it in the air next to his head. Then he rubs his eyes and gets up, though not even the first rays of the sun have begun to peek over the mountains. He makes his side of the bed, movements slow, face unreadable, and he does not seem to notice Dorian observing him with a raised eyebrow. Before Dorian can say anything or so much as move a muscle to stroke his hand, Leas steps away from the bed and heads towards the garderobe, and as he leaves, Dorian notes that his shoulders are rigid enough that if he felt them, they would likely have the consistency of rocks.

_Interesting,_ he thinks, readjusting his position. _Is this his early morning routine—_fasta vass_, I hope not, the fifth bell can't even have rung yet. Perhaps he just needs to use the latrine… but then why would he make the bed? Why am I even wondering?_ He's never needed to ponder such things as this before, and that he is doing so now… is alarming. And, to some foolish part of him that he's spent the past few days indulging freely, rather thrilling.

When Leas emerges from the garderobe, he creates another, larger ball of light, and goes to his wardrobe and drawers. He strips down, the action not sensual and meant for Dorian's benefit, but hurriedly done. Just as abruptly, after he has done, he kicks the small pile of clothes away from him and begins to scrounge through his wardrobe and drawers. He ultimately settles on a dark blue shirt and black trousers, both adorned with elaborate Dalish patterning on the arms, shoulders, and the sides of the legs, and both form-fitting. Then he brushes his hair and folds his nightclothes into a neat pile, which he places off to one side. Dorian watches all the while, now feeling compelled to silent observation by the very question of _why is he starting his day so early_. He imagines holding Leas in his arms while he slept, playing with his hair and observing him in peaceful repose, as he had done for some time last night, and he feels rather robbed. He had hoped when he had agreed to spend the night here that he would not start _his_ day alone.

After he has brushed his hair and otherwise refreshed himself, Leas heads over to the small shrine he has set up in one corner of the room, one that contains tokens of both the Maker and all the elven pantheon, and he kneels before it. He remains in prayer for some time, and Dorian dutifully looks away—it is no business of his to observe this. A few minutes pass before Leas stands, heads over to his desk, refreshes his ball of light, and appears to check a piece of parchment. Then—and Dorian's eyebrows fly up at this—he sits down, pulls another sheet towards him, reads it over, picks up his quill, dips it into the inkpot, and begins to write.

So, he _is_ starting his day.

Normally not so surprising, but Dorian is so startled and incredulous that he can't keep from sitting up in bed. "Are you—_working_?" he says, by way of a morning greeting.

Leas doesn't even look up. "I am. Did I wake you?"

"Possibly, yes, but—"

"If it's so, then I'm sorry. But you needn't worry, I promise," he says, glancing up this time to catch Dorian's gaze. In the ball of light, Dorian can see him smiling slightly.

He shakes his head. "Never mind that. Do you know what _time_ it is?"

Leas chuckles, no doubt guessing the reason for Dorian's exasperation. "I do, but it's irrelevant."

"Irrelevant? Are you mad? It's _five in the morning!_"

"I know." Leas' chuckling turns into laughter. "But I always start this early. Occasionally even earlier."

Dorian stares at him. "_Vishante kaffas_," he says flatly. "Sweet Maker, why would you start at this hour? Don't you want to _sleep_?"

Leas shrugs and looks back down at whatever he's working on. "Too much to do. You know, I've got dignitaries to meet, reports to write and read, lessons with Adhlean, priestesses and nobles to argue with, my own studies, preparations for the next trip out, and so on and so forth. I do my reports early so I can focus on everything else. And…" He pauses, then sighs. "I have nightmares a lot. I rarely get back to sleep after… Well, I find it better to just get to work rather than waiting in vain."

He muses that over for a moment while Leas resumes writing. Sensible, he supposes, but Maker's mercy, _no wonder_ the man always looks so tired! "Do you ever allow yourself time to… I don't know… _look after yourself?_"

"Sure," Leas says distractedly. "Late at night. A half-hour or so of free time… mostly that's planning for the next day, but it's relaxing, I promise. Or, well…" He blushes. "Two hours last night, as I recall. Can't say I planned all that much, um…"

Dorian raises an eyebrow. "If I ever learnt you were thinking about work during _sex_, I might feel obliged to kick you out of bed."

Leas chuckles again. "Don't worry, I wasn't. You're a very distracting man. But I _enjoyed_ myself. Does that count as looking after myself?"

"I guess so," Dorian concedes with a sigh of his own. "It just seems… inadequate. You're always working in some capacity. Can't you take more time off? I'm sure Josephine could schedule _some_ in…"

Again without looking up, Leas lifts the piece of parchment he'd checked before and floats it over until it's hovering next to Dorian's head. "Give this a read. Can you find anywhere for me to fit 'time off' in?"

Curiously, Dorian takes the parchment from the air and creates his own ball of light. He resettles himself in the bed and reads.

_'5 bells, or before—Get up. Reports._

_7 bells—Breakfast with Adhlean, Iselen, Halevuna, whoever else is back at Skyhold._

_Half past 7 bells—Lessons with Adhlean. (Note: this week: more Spirit magic. He seems interested in that.)_

_10 bells—Meetings with dignitaries._

_Half past 12 bells—Free time. (In practice: talking with the inner circle. This week: more discussions with Cassandra and Leliana about Chantry, discuss Grey Warden rebuilding with Blackwall, more lessons with Solas. Find some time to spend with Dorian away from the library. Need to do something together.) Work in lunch if possible._

_14 bells—Meet with soldiers and scouts, prepare for next expedition, meetings with war council, miscellaneous Inquisitorial matters._

_17 bells—Training._

_18 bells—Meet with Chantry priestesses and Orlesian nobles. Cultural exchange with those who wish it. Talk to/discipline bigots among the soldiers. Dinner while doing so, if possible._

_20 bells—Studying. (This week: Solas' treatises on arcane warriors. Dorian recommended Tevinter text on veilfire months ago—read that too. Tevene as well. Would like to surprise him with a few words. The more grammatically coherent, the better.) If nothing to study, check on Adhlean._

_22 bells—Miscellaneous tasks. (This week: meeting with Grey Wardens, review progress, see how they're rebuilding, make recommendations.)_

_23 bells—Free time. (In practice: planning for next day.)_

_Half past 23 bells—Bed._

_Midnight to 3 bells—Dreaming in the Fade.'_

Dorian's disbelief climbs with almost every word he reads, and though he lingers for a moment on 'Tevene as well', which causes a strange warmth in his stomach, he doesn't think of it for long. By the end, he's shaking his head. "Lunch and dinner _if possible_? No wonder you're starting to look so skinny. Do you honestly only let yourself relax when you're talking with us? For what, an hour and a half?"

"That's right. It's enjoyable."

"What, discussions about the Chantry and rebuilding the Grey Wardens? That's _enjoyable_?" Even the little note about them spending time together away from the library is poor consolation: that is still not sufficient time for Leas to _relax_.

"Necessary, then. But the company is enjoyable," Leas explains.

Dorian sighs. "Fair enough. But I still don't believe Josephine designed this. She wouldn't be so hard on you."

"True. She gave me the list of jobs, I decided how long I should spend at them and built it from there. I've done fine so far."

"_So far._ You're going to burn yourself out at this rate!"

Leas shrugs again, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "I don't know. I feel as energetic now as I have done every other day," he says, and the frightening part is Dorian is more than seventy per cent sure he's _not_ lying. "If I didn't enjoy what I was doing, maybe I would be burning out. But…"

"And how many hours of sleep do you get a night? How often do you miss lunch and dinner?" he asks sharply, well aware he s sounding like a nag—an effect amplified by the fact that this is the first time he's slept in Leas' quarters overnight—but unable to help himself. This is _absurd_.

Leas seems to think for a moment, then says, "Four to five hours, which is slightly less than how it was with the clan, but I'm used to being chronically sleep-deprived, so it's no trouble. And I don't miss them _that_ often. Both of them, anyway. I usually miss one or the other, but not both."

Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose. "Pardon me if I'm not reassured."

"Dorian, I'm a single father running the single most powerful organisation in southern Thedas at a time when there's a hole in the sky, and an ancient magister is bent on destroying everything. I also have other duties that I _can't_ set aside. This was inevitable. You know that." Leas speaks gently, not even at all irritated, and Dorian sighs.

"I do. But you shouldn't be working to the point where you consider even talking with us to be work. You deserve to treat yourself every now and then."

"Who says I don't?" Leas says, with a grin. He again returns to his papers while Dorian attempts to puzzle out what he means and immediately starts wondering if _this_ is what he calls 'treating himself'. Just as quickly, a cold dread starts deep within him. For all the pretty words he spoke when they first started this, for all he's said that he wants more, Leas is too kind and polite to say directly what he means when he knows that it'll hurt someone. What if the sex is all he wants in truth? Last night, they had time for nothing more than sex before Leas had to go to sleep, and he didn't seem bothered by it. What if…

_No, no, do not give way to such irrationality. Lying to you would be crueller than telling you to your face that he only wants sex. He would never…_

But the thought lingers in his mind as he pats the bed and says, "Come back here and warm me up. It's altogether too chilly for my liking without you."

Leas' grin widens. "I suppose I can do that. Just let me finish this. I'm not getting ink on the sheets." For half a moment, Dorian considers protesting and saying that Leas doesn't mind getting _other things_ on the sheets, so why should he mind ink, but then he decides that such juvenility is beneath him. He shakes his head and lies back down, and he watches Leas work in silence.

A little while later, Leas lays his quill aside, gathers up more of his papers, and rises. Ball of light still floating next to his head, he returns to the bed, pulls back the covers, and sits down again, and Dorian turns and wraps an arm around his waist. Leas smiles and glances at him briefly, but he otherwise remains focused on his work, and the dread begins again, deep inside him.

_Don't be absurd. He needs to work. He came back. Isn't that enough?_

It should be enough. Months ago, it would have been. But now it seems… inadequate, something like neglect. He tries to shake the feeling, to tell himself that he's being ridiculous, but it won't be silenced so easily.

He drifts off again into an uneasy sleep with Leas working beside him, heedless, and before the realisation that this would have been a good time to leave, as nobody would have seen him, has the chance to occur to him.

* * *

It becomes routine afterwards, slowly, Dorian slipping into Leas' room late at night, the pair of them spending time together and enjoying themselves (typically with sex, more often than he cares to admit, and indeed more often than he likes), then going to sleep together, followed by Dorian waking up a few hours later to see Leas working. In the earlier days, he always leaves at this time to prevent anyone from seeing him, and Leas never stops him (and that hurts more than he'll say, as much as he tries to tell himself that it's just Leas being considerate of his wishes). Then, however, he finds the courage to stay, up until Leas has to leave for breakfast with his family—and the state of affairs becomes increasingly troublesome to him.

But even more troubling to him, loath though he is to admit it, is the amount of work Leas continues to do. Not for what it means for _them_, though that's never far from his mind, but for what it's doing to Leas himself. _Look at him,_ he muses early morning as he observes him working, a day before they set out for the Emprise du Lion (a trip he is dreading). _All the work he does, you think they could give him _some_ time off. Or that he would give himself some time off. What was it he said about wanting to remain himself despite all his responsibilities…?_

Those were pretty much his exact words, in fact. And yet…

_No reward, no appreciation, exactly as I said there wouldn't be,_ Dorian muses. _A crying shame. Practically an injustice, even. Well, that won't stand._ So saying, he pushes the covers aside, gets out of the bed, pads over to Leas with quiet footfalls, and lays his hands on his shoulders and begins to rub.

Looking closely, he can barely make out Leas' mouth quirking into a smile, but he says nothing. No offence in that, he supposes. This isn't quite how one does a massage, he knows, but he doubts he'll ever persuade Leas to submit to one of those (unless he promises sex at the end, Dorian notes sourly). Better to spring a partial massage on him unawares and be glad Leas likes surprises. He rubs at his shoulders and brushes his fingers over his neck for a little while, then moves his hands down to his shoulder blades.

Almost at once, he nearly breaks away, and he exhales in surprise. _I assumed 'consistency of rocks' would be an exaggeration. Maker's mercy, they _are_ like rocks! This can't be healthy._ But it will do Leas no good if Dorian is distracted by his alarm—a masseur needs to be as focused on the massage as the one receiving it, or it won't work. (Never mind that Leas himself is far from focused, or so he seems.) So he swallows, shakes his head, and keeps rubbing, kneading at the muscles as firmly as he can, encouraging them into softness. Slowly, slowly, Leas' shoulders relax.

There. Progress.

"I wasn't aware you knew how to give massages," Leas says, as Dorian kneels and moves further down. His tone is interested but calm, as if nothing is being done to him, and that stings something more than his pride. Why won't he pay attention? Is his work really that much more fascinating?

"I spent time enough with the masseurs back in Minrathous," Dorian tells him, somehow keeping his irritation out of his voice. "I learnt a few things from them. Leas, do you have any idea how _tense_ your shoulders are? It's like kneading stone. I'd dearly love to know how you walk around like this."

Leas chuckles and starts writing. "Honestly, I think I just stopped noticing at some point. Not that I object to _this_… it's very nice. _'Ma serannas_, Dorian."

"Somebody needs to look after you, if you're not going to look after yourself," Dorian says, chiding. "Ridiculous man, starting at the most ungodly hours, working until a lesser person would drop dead of exhaustion, missing meals, _not noticing_ the tension in his back even though I'm sure it must be giving him a headache…"

Leas pauses for a moment. "Hmm. Is that what it is? Interesting…"

Dorian groans. "_Sweet Maker,_ Leas, really! Did that never occur to you?" On Leas' back, his touch becomes a trifle more aggressive, and he has to take several deep breaths before he can dial it back again.

"Honestly, no. I've had so much to worry about that all my aches and pains have just… slipped my mind. I'm so used to them that I don't even think about them."

A pause, then Dorian reaches up, grabs Leas' chin, and makes him look at him. "You'll see the healer later today," he says, firmly.

Silence, and Dorian can practically see Leas' objection rising in his throat. Then his expression shifts minutely—as if knowing that Dorian will brook no argument. "It might be an idea. I'll try to find the time…"

Not good enough. That's simply an excuse for him to not go at all. "You'll find the time. Don't come to find me in the library, talk to the healer. Have you even _visited_ at all since we got to Skyhold, for a check-up?"

Leas smiles weakly and shakes his head. "No. All right, I'll go, if it makes you happy."

"It's not about making me happy," Dorian snaps, frustration finally boiling over. "I'm worried about your _health_, Leas, and frankly, I'm surprised nobody else has said anything yet."

Leas shrugs and looks away, cheeks flushing pink. "Bull's been giving me a few odd looks. Cullen may have said something, but we were in the middle of a war meeting… it slipped my mind. My clanmates… they're used to me being sleep-deprived. I don't think even Iselen has noticed, or if he has, he hasn't said anything."

Dorian swears under his breath. "Honestly, it almost sounds as if there's some conspiracy to kill the Inquisitor by neglect," he says, aiming for flippancy but falling entirely short. "A strange day when _I_ have to be the one looking after you."

"Don't your magisters work long hours? What do they do when they're not scheming and using blood magic?" Leas asks, no doubt an attempt at deflection.

Still, no harm in indulging him, so long as he brings the conversation back around to the main point. Dorian returns to the massage. "True, the magisters have plenty of duties that southerners never hear about. Sitting in the Magisterium, meeting with their subjects for those who hold lands, magical research, general matters of administration and bureaucracy… the list goes on. I don't deny our decadence, but magisters' children also have their responsibilities, and unless you're _me_," he adds with a harsh, self-deprecating laugh, "you don't sit around all day wasting coin and indulging your vices. Maybe a third of the time—if that."

"How much time do they spend at their work?"

"Again, longer than the southerners imagine. When Father was busy, he would sometimes spend all day either shut up in his study or the _cubiculum_, and I'd only see him at supper. Sometimes not even then. But even he always took at least an hour to relax, Leas, and I don't remember him ever working all night," Dorian says pointedly.

"All right, all right, your point is made," Leas says. "I'll go talk to the healer. I suppose it _would_ be nice to relax…"

Dorian shakes his head. "What a revelation," he mutters, and Leas laughs. "_And_ if you'll indulge me in something else… leave that report and come back to bed. Let me finish what I started." He presses his hands deeper into Leas' back to emphasise his point.

Leas grins. "Ordering me around, are you, Dorian?" he teases. "Oh, the irony…"

"_Leas_…"

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," Leas says, raising his hands defensively. He lays his quill aside. "The report's mostly done, anyway." He stands, and Dorian takes his hand and pulls him back to the bed, bidding him lie prone on top of the covers. He does so, and Dorian kneels next to him. He starts again, properly this time, and it warms more than his pride that he finally has Leas' undivided attention.

After a short while, Leas looks around and catches his gaze. "Wait. Was it bothering you that I was working while you were…?"

"Did that just occur to you?" Dorian asks dryly, and Leas' subsequent blush tells him everything he needs to know. "Yes, it was. I'm sure you wouldn't like it if I kept working while you were trying to do something nice for me."

Leas' blush deepens. "_Ir abelas_, Dorian," he murmurs, and to his credit, the man at least sounds sincere. "Seems like I'm still getting the hang of this whole relationship business. I promise I won't be so selfish next time… and I'll take a bit more care of myself."

"You had better," Dorian tells him as he pulls back one of Leas' fingers, easing the tension from the joint. "It wouldn't reflect well on me if you dropped dead of exhaustion while in my care." Leas laughs. "You realise that 'looking after yourself' ought to include revising your schedule? The way it is now, I would call it a form of _torture_."

Leas shakes his head. "Don't be dramatic. I'm handling it just fine," he says airily, but when Dorian glares at him, he falters. They've had this discussion about not dismissing his concerns out of hand, after all. "Ah… I'll talk to Josephine. She probably knows how to draw up a schedule better than I."

"_Thank_ you," Dorian says. "Now, lie back. I still have a few things I need to show you…"

* * *

A few weeks later, some days after they return to Skyhold from the frozen waste that is the Emprise du Lion, Dorian's reading and basking in the warmth of the library are interrupted by hesitant footsteps. He looks up, and his eyebrows lift as he sees Adhlean approaching him.

The boy is almost hunched over, and he stares up at Dorian with bright blue eyes wide and afraid. But Dorian can read children as much as he can read adults, and so he can see that the boy is steeling himself for something. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again and manages to whisper, "E-Excuse me, Dorian?"

Somehow, Dorian keeps from grimacing in dread. He lays his book aside and sits up. "Yes, Adhlean? Was there something you needed?" he says, and for once, he hopes he sounded sufficiently polite. The boy's _never_ spoken to him before, at least not on his own. That he should approach now…

"No, no, nothing," Adhlean says hastily. He eyes the book. "Am I interrupting?"

"Not at all. Speak freely, though I'm sure you don't need to be told that," Dorian responds, and he gives the most encouraging smile he can muster. Presuming that it looks encouraging and not mildly terrifying, of course.

Adhlean nods and visibly swallows. "Right. Um. I just…" He looks away for a moment then seems to force himself to look back. "There's something I wanted to, er, say 'thanks' for."

His eyebrow climbs higher. "To me? We've barely spoken," he says before he can stop himself. "If I've done anything for you, it's slipped my memory."

The boy lets out a rather reedy laugh. "No, not for me. For _Babae_. I dunno what you did, but he's been, um, _different_ for a little while. And I mean that in a good way, a good way!" he adds hastily when he catches Dorian staring at him. "He's… uh. I don't know how to say it…" The boy wrings his hands, as he always seems to, and licks his lips. A pause ensues.

Finally, Adhlean blows out a breath. "I don't know. He just seems more… _relaxed_. But also more focused, if you get it? He's not… rushing off everywhere now. He was always acting to a, to a schedule a couple of weeks back. But, uh, he seems more… something now. Less bound? Is that how you say… I don't know." He shakes his head, grimacing. "I _mean_, I sometimes see him in the evenings now, not just the mornings, and he doesn't always seem like he has something else on his mind. It's good that's changed."

Coherency at last. "Was it bothering you that his mind was always somewhere else?" Dorian asks carefully.

Adhlean shakes his head vigorously. "No, no," he says. "I'm not more important than the world. I know he's gotta save it. If he's a bit far away, 's not his fault. But I was worried about _him_. You know, he gets all these bad dreams, and he's got all of Thedas on his shoulders, and he spends a lot of time fighting a one-man battle for the elves… He needed to relax. He didn't think he did, but he _did_. But he wouldn't do that until a few weeks ago. So, er, whatever you did, thanks."

Dorian manages a more genuine smile this time and leans forward in his seat. "How did you know it was me?"

Adhlean shrugs, blushing a little. "I dunno. I just guessed. _Babae_ told me you got him to start talking about stuff with you that he's never told even Uncle Iselen. So I thought if anyone could get him to relax…"

"He needed it," Dorian tells him, shoulders relaxing. "I gave him a massage one early morning—his shoulders felt like _rocks_, and he hadn't even noticed. Or he'd stopped noticing. Either way, I was able to talk him into seeing a healer and taking more time for himself, you're right."

"_'Ma serannas,_" Adhlean says. "Er, I mean, thanks. I know _he_ thought he could last out all this and not burn out, but even I know you can't do that. Even our Keeper sometimes has nights where she sits in her aravel and does whatever she likes. She always seems happier the next day. So he should, too. And he does. I mean, he _seems_ happier."

"Your father's always happy," Dorian says wryly. "Or almost always."

"I know that. But that's what I meant when I said he seemed more focused. Not sure how to explain it. It's like… he's putting less effort into looking happy. He's more relaxed, but not all over the place. It's… like he's got less weight on his shoulders. Because he's relaxing. Do you get what I mean?"

Dorian considers it. "I _think_ I do," he says, partly not to upset the boy. He's surprised Adhlean's actually managed to say so many words to him without stammering.

"Watch him. Maybe you'll see it. Anyway, you said you did that for him, so, er, thanks. I'm glad you're looking out for him." Adhlean blushes again, more deeply this time.

"Isn't that what _parents_ are supposed to say about their _children_?"

Adhlean giggles, and this time, the sound is not so reedy, but more childlike, more like an almost-eleven-year-old boy's. "Yeah, I guess. But I mean. I'm glad you did that for him. And I'm… glad you've been there. He can't tell me what's going on, not all of it. I've got enough to worry about. He and Uncle Iselen can barely talk about anything these days. I'm happy he's got you. I think you're doing something good for him."

Dorian stares at Adhlean for a moment, and to his mild embarrassment, some warmth separate from that of the library starts inside him. It's glowing, tingling, almost. "Well, thank you," he says, looking away. "I must say, I didn't think you'd approve."

"I didn't at first. I thought he was crazy. But he talks about you a lot, and Uncle Iselen says he's not a good liar, so I guess what he says about you must be true. And it's good. So… that's good. Nobody else in the clan could have done that for him. I'm glad he's got this."

"And my being Tevinter?"

Adhlean looks down. "That's still crazy. Sorry," he mumbles. "But he _says_ he's been talking to you about slavery, and stuff, so…"

"That simple, is it?" Dorian says, with another wry smile and a quirk of the brow.

"I, well, I don't know," Adhlean admits. His face is deep red by this point, and he can't meet Dorian's gaze. "I mean, we've gotta go back to the clan, eventually. Where does that leave you? But I mean, for now, it seems cool. Syghimye was a bit upset about it, still is, but…"

There goes that warm glowing feeling. "And why was that?"

Adhlean smiles weakly. "He just had a thing for _Babae_, that's all," he says, and Dorian's stomach sinks. "He came here hoping _Babae_ might notice him. But he's even worse about expressing himself than I am, or that's what Laisal says. So when he finally got up the courage, he found out he'd already lost to a Tevinter. He was… more than a little embarrassed."

Dorian rubs his forehead, unsure what he should make of that. "And Leas didn't notice?"

"No. I mean, Syghimye never acted any differently around him from… how he did around everyone else. And he was _really_ sure that no one in the clan would want him like that. But they've talked things over, and everything, don't worry," he adds hastily. "Water under the bridge, or it will be, anyway."

"And here I thought I'd already caused your father enough trouble."

"There'll be more," Adhlean says. "The rest of the clan doesn't know yet. But I mean, why worry now? This doesn't look like it'll, er, be ending anytime soon."

"'Cross that bridge when you come to it,' do you mean?"

Adhlean nods. "Yeah. That's what he says to me. I mean, I'd be very upset if you up and left because you were worried about a few problems. You've already done him a lot of good. So…"

"I'm pleased _you_ approve," Dorian says, with another, more tentative smile, "but I don't want to cause him any more problems with his family. He needs to have someplace to go back to at the end of this."

From not far off, down the stairs, a voice calls out Adhlean's name before he can respond. Adhlean looks in its direction, quickly calls out, "I'm coming!" then looks back at Dorian. Much to Dorian's surprise, he leans in conspiratorially.

"He may not already," he says, voice strangely grim for a young boy. "I'm one mage too many, and he doesn't want me to go to another clan. And some people think he's, er, got too close to the enemy—and they don't know about you. And he's told me going back won't be easy. So he may lose his place even if you drop him. So don't drop him!"

Dorian stares at him, feeling a familiar dread creeping back into his veins. "What does _that_ mean?" he hisses, though he can guess the answer.

The boy shakes his head again. "I'm sorry, I have to go," he says. "Before I'm seen chatting to you. I'll come back later, and I can tell you, yeah?"

He swallows, trying to keep calm. "Of course. You do that," he somehow gets out. The boy smiles and dashes off without another word just as Halevuna reaches the top of the stairs, and Dorian watches him go while trying to pretend that he's not watching him go.

Then he leans back in his seat and runs his hands over his face, groaning low. _Kaffas. What, exactly, is he looking at here?_


End file.
